Margo's Story
by Rachel D
Summary: A typical day in the life of 22-year-old Chicago EMT, Margo Pike. COMPLETED!
1. Chapter 1

_**MARGO'S STORY**_

A/N: This takes place between BSC 10 Years Later and You Needed Me. Also, see how many _Rescue 911 _references you can spot.

**CHAPTER 1**

_"Ya got-ta do what-cha can, an' let Mo-ther Na-ture do the rest!...Ain't no doubt a-bout it, we were doub-ly blessed,...'cuz we were bare-ly se-ven-teen an' we were bare-ly dressed!"_

That's the song that was blaring from my iPod as I got off the bus. And even though I'm probably the world's worst singer, I couldn't help singing right along with Meatloaf—but I also made sure to sing softly enough so the other passengers wouldn't hear me and tell me how much my voice sounded like shit. Let me put it this way: if you combined the sound of a chicken bone in a garbage disposal with a car alarm, you'd have my singing voice.

I arrived at the fire station that Tuesday morning to see my partner, Mark Evans, restocking our unit. He has dark brown hair, a graying, bushy moustache and goatee, and gold-rimmed John Lennon-looking glasses. "Hi, Mark," I said as I put on my jacket, clipped my walkie-talkie to my belt, and hung my stethoscope across the back of my neck.

"'Margo," he answered in his heavy Midwestern accent as he closed the bench seat where we store some of our gear.

"Any calls yet?" I asked.

"Nope," he answered, handing me a pair of gloves. "It's still early. We may be getting one soon, though."

Okay, introduction time. I'm Margo Pike, I'm twenty-two years old, and as you may have guessed, I'm an EMT. I've been on the job for about three years now—most of which has been in Chicago, which is where I now live—and I enjoy every moment of it, especially when I can make a difference in the outcome of someone's life.

I still can't believe I'm able to do this, especially since I was the Queen of Motion Sickness when I was growing up. In fact, I once threw up on a merry-go-round, and I wasn't even sitting on one of the horses. Go figure.

You're probably wondering why I'm mentioning this. Well, you see, Sudsy's Carnival was in town when I was seven, and Kristy Thomas, one of my former baby-sitters, got this idea to take several of us kids to the carnival over Mother's Day weekend to give our moms a break. The way that worked was, after our dads dropped us off at Claudia Kishi's house with our sack lunches, the age group of the kids at the time—between two and a half and nine years old—was divided among each sitter, and our dads were going to either watch the babies or do something with the older kids. After we got done at the carnival, our baby-sitters took us to Carle Playground for lunch, then back to Claudia's for crafts and stories until time to pick us up.

I was born in Stoneybrook, Connecticut, where I lived until I finished my EMT traIning the summer I turned nineteen, then I found there was no position for me, so I moved to Chicago. I did a few more months of training, and last summer, I met Mark. He's a nice guy, even though he's about twenty years my senior. I was actually paired up with him soon after I finished my extra training, because his previous partner was killed in a fire. This guy was helping lift children through the broken window of a house, and was hit when an antique lamp, followed by the stand it was on, fell over on him and broke. Both of the kids he was rescuing escaped with only minor injuries, but sadly, he died of not only his injuries, but also smoke inhalation. Mark's only injury was getting some cinders in his left eye, which is why he switched to glasses after wearing contacts for so many years. He told me he saw the whole thing, and to this day, still won't talk about it.

But other than that, our partnership works out so well. The best thing is, I don't have some collection that I'm proud of that I'm always yapping in his ear about, and he doesn't bore me with stories about his wife and kids, all of whom are younger than me.

I climbed into the ambulance and got the clipboard and some forms out of one of the overhead compartments. The purpose of the forms is for someone to sign when we arrive on the scene, and when and if they decide transportation is not necessary. I've had at least a dozen people fill those out in my career, but so far, I've never been to an accident scene where someone died. (Yeah, I can't believe it, either.) Personally, I am so not looking forward to that.

I put the paperwork between the front seats, then climbed over to the passenger seat as Mark climbed into the driver's seat. He pulled the ambulance out of the garage, and after I picked up the radio and reported in to the dispatcher to let her know we were available to respond to any calls, we sat parked outside while we waited for our first call.

"So, how was the movie the other night?" I asked as I finished the last of my V8 Fusion.

"Great," Mark answered. He and his family, along with some friends from their church, had just seen _Heaven Is For Real _at the mall's new ciniplex. You know, the story of little Colton Burpo's brush with death when he was having an emergency appendectomy. I was actually in the middle of reading the book on my Kindle, which my sister, Vanessa, recommended to me, but I haven't seen the movie yet. "Kellie—you know, my youngest—couldn't take her eyes off the screen for a second. I thought she was just as moved by the movie as I was, but when we got home, my other daughter, Charlene told me it was because Kellie has a crush on the kid who played Colton."

I immediately burst out laughing when he told me that. "She's only five!" I managed to gasp.

"Exactly. I'm used to Charlene's boy-craziness, but I was so sure I had at least five more years before I had to worry about Kellie acting this way. Four, at the most."

"At least they didn't start singing 'We Will Rock You' in the middle of the movie, right?"

"No, they saved it for the ride home. "

"And I'm also guessing nobody started howling like dogs while singing 'Come Thou Fount of Every Blessing', either," I laughed.

"Right," Mark agreed, also laughing.

Just then, the dispatcher's voice came over our radio, telling us that there was a young child in status epilepticus—a condition where the person has a prolonged seizure, or two in a row with no break in between—and where it was happening. "Time to rock 'n' roll," I said.

Mark nodded as he put on his gloves, then he sped out of the driveway and turned on the siren.

Another day had begun.


	2. Chapter 2

**CHAPTER 2**

When we pulled into the driveway of the address we were given, we got out of the ambulance, and I grabbed the duffel bag with our medicine supply in it. We were greeted by a woman who looked at least ten years my senior. She had waist-length blondish-brown hair, blue eyes, and tortoise-shell horn-rimmed glasses. She also had on dark blue jeans, white running shoes, and a green sweatshirt that said "YES, I'M THE FUN AUNT" on the front.

"Cassie?" Mark asked in surprise. That was when I knew the frantic woman was his sister, so I figured it was one of her kids who was having the seizure.

"Mark, thank God," she said, fighting the panic in her voice. "It's Lydia."

"This way," Mark said. Cassie led us into the house, where we found four-year-old Lydia having a seizure on the living room floor. I knelt beside her and checked to make sure there was nothing in her mouth. So far, so good.

"How long has she been seizing?" I asked.

"About half an hour," Cassie answered tearfully.

"You did very well," Mark told his sister as he knelt beside me. He opened the bag and got out the Ativan to give the first injection. After he did, we waited a minute to see if it would work. Surprisingly, it did, because she stopped seizing and I put the oxygen mask over her face.

"Let's go," Mark said as he picked up his niece and we went out to the ambulance. When we got outside, he settled Lydia on the stretcher and strapped her in as I climbed up beside her. That's the way it works. Mark and I take turns driving each day, and the other person takes care of the patient.

"I'll follow in the car," Cassie told us. She led her sons, twelve-year-old Carl and nine-year-old Jesse, to their red Toyota. Mark nodded, and shut the door behind us.

As we sped away from the house, I checked the little girl's vital signs and made my report to the hospital. By the time that was done, Lydia looked like she was starting to come around, so I took her hands.

"Lydia?" I said. "It's Miss Margo. Can you squeeze my hands?" There was no response. "Come on, Lydia."

At that moment, another seizure started, so I repeated the process with the meds. By the time that one was over, we were pulling into the ambulance bay at Northwestern Hospital, where James Hobart, whom I've known since I was seven, was starting his third year of med school. I didn't know which rotation he was on, though.

When we opened the doors, one of the doctors—Dr. Brown, as I later found out—was waiting. "What do we got?" he asked.

"Lydia Donahue, four, status epilepticus, one round of Ativan at the scene, second round en route, just now starting to come around," I reported without missing a beat.

"Pupils reactive but sluggish, appears altered," one of the nurses added.

"It's my niece," Mark said as he hurried over to where we were.

"Oh, Jesus," I heard another doctor say. "I'm so sorry, Mark."

"Trauma One," Dr. Brown ordered. We took Lydia to the room and transferred her to the table.

I started to push the gurney back out the door when I looked over my shoulder and saw Mark still standing there. "Mark?" I called. "Mark, it's okay; they'll take care of her."

"Your partner's right, Evans," Dr. Brown said. "We'll keep you posted. In the meantime, we need you to go outside."

"But she..."

_"Go, now."_

On our way out with the gurney, we heard one of the nurses showing Cassie and the boys to the waiting room. "Call me when you get a chance," Mark called to his sister. She tearfully nodded as she and the nurse sat down, and we were soon out the door.

When we got back in the ambulance, we drove around for a while. "She's in good hands," I tried to reassure my partner. "Dr. Brown's one of the best pediatricians at Northwestern."

"I know, but still, it's my niece," Mark said. I could tell he was still worried.

"I know, but you always told me to never let your personal feelings get in the way," I reminded him as we changed our gloves.

Mark started to open his mouth to say something else when a bluish-silver PT Cruiser about ten feet away from us started to cross the intersection. All of a sudden, a white VW came running through, barely missing the other car, and smashed head-on into a mailbox! The real shock to both of us was that it didn't cause a massive pile-up right in the middle of the intersection.

"Wait here," Mark said, pulling on his gloves, as he jumped out. Somehow, he'd managed to put aside his worrying about Lydia and take care of business.

As I watched him hurry toward the spot of the crash, I had a gut-feeling that we'd need some help, judging from the condition of the VW. So I grabbed the radio, told the dispatcher where we were, and hurried over to where Mark was.

I opened the driver's side door of the VW, and saw that it was an elderly man—mid-60s was my guess—slumped over the seat. I unfastened his seatbelt, wrapped my arms around his chest, and pulled him out of the car. "Sir, are you okay?" I asked as I shook his shoulder.

There was no response. Just then, I saw the driver of the PT cruiser running toward me. "Is he okay?" she asked.

"Start CPR," Mark said as he started chest compressions and I got the ambu bag out, put it over the man's face, and started squeezing.

A minute later, one of the other EMTs—Pickman, as I later found out-came over to relieve me, so I decided to check on some of the other people. The first one I turned to was the driver of the other car, a young Hispanic girl who looked like she was about a couple of years younger than me. "Are you okay?" I asked.

_"Sí,_ I'm okay," she whispered with a frantic nod. I could tell she was still badly shaken, so I led her to the back of the ambulance, where I helped her inside and sat her down on the stretcher so I could check her over a little better. "What happened?"

"He had a heart attack, hon," I said, putting on my stethoscope. "My partner's working on him now."

_"Ay, Dios mío,"_ she said, fighting the tears that were coming. She was clearly more concerned about the man than herself. "Will he be okay?"

I shrugged as I wrapped the blood pressure cuff around her arm and checked her blood pressure.

After I finished examining her, she started to cry. "Hey," I said, sitting on the gurney beside her and putting my arm around her. "You're okay. Everything's going to be just fine. Do you need to come to the hospital with us?"

She shrugged, and I helped her lie back on the stretcher and strapped her in. Just as I turned around to shut the doors, Mark came over.

"We got another one?" he asked.

"Yeah, the girl who was driving the other car," I answered. "Her BP's 108/82. She's still pretty shook up, so I think we should take her to be checked over, just in case. How's the old man?"

"They got a rhythm. He's stable for now, and he'll be in the other ambulance."

"Good deal."

Mark nodded and shut the door behind me, then climbed up into the driver's seat.

"I'm Lucía, by the way," the girl said as we sped toward the hospital.

"Margo," I answered. "So Lucía, what were you doing when the accident occurred?"

"I was going over to my grandmother's to take her out for lunch," she answered. "When I saw the other car coming, I got really scared, so I had to stop."

I nodded as I reached for her wrist. "You know, you're a very lucky girl. That VW missed you by just that much."

"I know," Lucía panted. "I heard the sound of the crash, and people screaming outside, and I thought for sure we were both dead. When I opened my eyes, I saw you helping that poor man out of his car. That's when I got out of mine and ran over to where you were."

"That was very nice of you to worry about him," I commented as I folded her arm across her chest.

We soon arrived at the hospital. "I think I'll be okay now," Lucía said as Mark came around the back to open it for us.

"Okay," I said as we helped her out.

After all that excitement, and as soon as we got all the patients inside, Mark said, "That accident really worked up my appetite, so what do you say we stop at Rax today?"

"Sure," I agreed as I climbed into the passenger seat again. "Oh, did I ever tell you that my brother and sister were in a children's show choir when we were younger?"

"I don't think so," he answered, peeling off his gloves and handing them to me. After I peeled mine off, I threw them in the little trash sack that was hanging on the air/heat knob.

"Well, when I was ten, my brother was eleven, and my sister was eight, they were in this group called the Stoneybrook Kids that had been started by the middle school choir director, and was helped by this one kid that everyone considered a neighborhood hero," I said.

"Why weren't you in it?"

"Have you ever heard me sing?"

"Point taken. And just between us, my voice sounds like shit, too."

"Anyway," I continued, "they were invited to compete in the international competition in Washington, DC, the first summer of its existence. According to my brother and sister, the kid who was our neighborhood hero wasn't feeling well on the day they'd left for Washington, and when they stopped at Rax for lunch, he collapsed outside the restrooms. Luckily, the stepsister of one of my sister's friends happened to be nearby, and when she went to get help, she found two EMTs who were finishing their lunch break, and got them to look him over. They even took him in their ambulance to the hospital."

"Was he okay?"

"He had to have his appendix out," I answered. "According to his stepsister, when he woke up from surgery, he started singing 'Good Morning, Starshine'."

Both of us laughed. I hadn't laughed like that with him since we were on a call a few weeks ago where the epileptic patient we were treating was so doped up on the meds we were giving that she started saying all this funny stuff, like her Barbie doll's hair—which she'd been playing with when she had the seizure—was bleached, and hers was blond. And couldn't anyone with half a gnat's brain tell the difference? (Her words, not ours.)

"Well, let's hope nothing like that happens today, okay?" Mark said.

I nodded as we pulled into Rax. Within minutes, we were sitting by one of the big bay windows with our lunch: a Philly, curly fries, and Mountain Dew for Mark, and a BBC, onion rings, and raspberry iced tea for me.

"So, tell me more about this Stoneybrook Kids group," Mark said as he dipped a curly fry in some horseradish.

"Oh, they were _so_ talented," I said. "I wish you could've seen them. I still remember seeing their show the night before they left for San Francisco. It was a few days before my high school graduation, and their show's theme that year was '80s one-hit wonders. Ricky Salem sang 'At This Moment' for a solo, and while he was singing, this little red-haired girl about three rows behind me was mouthing the words, and I'm positive I saw a tear in her eye."

A huge grin spread across Mark's face when I told him that. (By the way, don't tell his wife I told you this, but when he grins like that, he looks like Rob Lowe.)

"I'll bet she thought he was singing to her only, right?"

"Oh, yeah."

"So, did he give the girl his phone number, or did his mom tell him he wasn't ready for a serious relationship?"

I just grinned and shrugged. Leave it to Mark to make a joke about young love. (A distant relative of Sam Thomas or Alan Gray, perhaps?)

As we got up to throw our trash away, I heard my radio go off. I looked down, and saw that it was the office, and we were needed again.

It just never ends, does it?


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: The story about the epileptic patient and the bleached/blond Barbie doll is one my mom told me happened when I had one of many seizures as a kid, but I don't remember it.

**CHAPTER 3**

When we arrived at one of the local high schools, something hit me. "Oh, my God," I realized. "This is where Claudia Kishi teaches."

"One of your old baby-sitters?" Mark guessed.

"Yes," I answered. I had a horrible sinking feeling, one that was bad enough, I couldn't even tell Mark what it was. I knew there'd been an accident at this school, but I couldn't bear the thought of who the injured party—or parties—was. The pieces were starting to come together in my head, but I just couldn't let them.

Now, it was my turn to force myself not to lose control.

"Margo?" Mark's voice interrupted my thoughts. "Margo, let's go."

"Right," I said, somehow managing to pull myself together. I knew who we were here for, but I had to stay focused. I had a job to do.

_ We_ had a job to do.

The first thing I noticed when we came in through the front door was the smell. It was like a rotten egg type of smell, so strong and rancid that I damn near lost my BBC. Granted, my stomach is no longer the weak, unstable mass that I was cursed with as a kid; but it was still pretty nasty.

"Margo!" I heard a voice shout. I looked up, and running toward me, looking every bit as artsy and exotic as she did when we were growing up, was Claudia Kishi.

"Claudia!" I exclaimed as I ran up and threw my arms around her. "Oh, thank God! I thought it was you!"

"No," she answered tearfully. "It's Mr. Dayton. The chemistry teacher."

"What happened?" Mark asked.

"One of the kids just told me. It happened in the lab. Somebody added the wrong chemical to an experiment they were doing. The beaker started to smoke, and Mr. Dayton saw it and tried to rush it to an open window, and—it..."

That was as far as she got before she collapsed in tears on the floor.

Two more EMTs had just arrived while we were helping Claudia over to a nearby couch. One was a tall black man with a shaved head, a needle-thin moustache and goatee, and a name tag that said "SMITH". The other was a shorter, stockier blond man with gray eyes, gold-rimmed John Lennon-looking glasses, and a name tag that said "KENDALL".

"There's been an explosion in the chemistry lab," Mark told them.

"How bad?" Kendall asked.

"We don't know, we just got here a minute ago."

"Okay, you two get to the lab. Smith and I will stay with—what's your name, ma'am?"

"Claudia Kishi," Claudia sobbed.

"Okay, Miss Kishi, just stay calm," Smith said. "We're going to help your friend."

"This way," Mark ordered, and we ran to the lab. Along the way, I was expecting to see the entire room in shambles.

Well, much to my surprise, the room itself was still intact, but when we saw Mr. Dayton, it was obvious that he was hurt badly. The upper left side of his face, part of his hairline, and the entire left side of his nose were burned and bubbling up like a dollop of butter in a skillet. But by some miracle, his eye hadn't even been affected. It still amazes the hell out of me to this day.

"Okay, out of the way, kids," I said as we made our way inside. The students were all huddled back against the wall, and you'd better believe they were freaking out. One of the girls was crying in hysterics as she clung to her boyfriend: a big, strapping beast of a kid in a football jersey. I still remember the look on that boy's face, and although he never spoke, his eyes said it all: "Please help him."

The first thing we did was help Mr. Dayton remove his shirt, in case anything had gotten on his clothes. Next, I took charge of checking his vital signs while Mark contacted the hospital on the radio.

"Do you know your name?" I asked him as I wrapped the blood pressure cuff around his arm.

"Ken—Ken Day...Dayton," he whispered, grimacing in pain.

"Where are you?"

"School. In the—in the middle of class."

"What day is it? The date."

"October—fourteenth. Tuesday."

"What year?"

"Two thousand fourteen."

"What time is it?" I went on, checking his blood pressure. "Mr. Dayton?"

"One—1:29."

"Who's the President of the United States?"

"Ba—Barack Obama, unfor—fortunately."

_Yup, definitely a Republican,_ I thought. And in case you're wondering, yes, I am a Democrat.

"BP's 93/51, pulse 112, GCS normal," I reported to Mark, taking off the cuff and handing it to him.

"And his heart rate's pretty high, too, due to how much pain he's in," Mark added as he took off his stethoscope. Then, holding up three fingers, he asked Mr. Dayton, "How many fingers to do you see, sir?"

"Three," he answered as I put the EKG leads on his chest. "And there—there's a scar. On your index finger." 

"Yeah, I got that in auto shop when I was a freshman," Mark said as we helped him onto the gurney, with some assistance from Smith, one of the other EMTs, and the football player. "Do you need us to call someone?"

"Call my wife," he said. "She—she's across town. Baby-sitting our—our grandson."

"Got it."

On the way out, I stuck my head in the main office door and called, "Can someone call Mrs. Dayton?"

"We just called her," one of the secretaries answered. "She dropped the baby off at a neighbor's, and is on her way to the hospital. And she told us she'll call their son and daughter-in-law."

"Good deal," I said, and we were out of there in a flash. On the way to the door, Claudia saw us and jumped up.

"Oh, Ken!" she cried. I hadn't seen her look this upset since she told us about the time she heard Mr. Nicholls slap one of his boys.

"He'll be okay, Miss Kishi," Smith assured her as we made our way down the wheelchair ramp. "And don't worry, no one else was hurt."

"Do you want to go with us?" Kendall asked.

Claudia nodded vigorously. "Just let me tell the principal I'm going, and tell my aide to cover for me," she said. "I'll be right back, Ken!"

"Okay; easy, guys," Smith instructed us as we loaded Mr. Dayton into our rig. "We'll meet you there."

"Right," I said. After we got him inside, I climbed in the back and shut the doors as Mark hurried to the front seat.

Did I mention that it never ends? Because it doesn't.


	4. Chapter 4

**CHAPTER 4**

During the ride to County General, I kept talking to Mr. Dayton, trying to keep him awake, and checking his vitals again. When we arrived at County, we were greeted by two doctors. "What do we got?" one of them asked.

"Ken Dayton, fifty-five, victim of a chemistry lab explosion," I said as I jumped out of the rig and helped ease the stretcher out. "Second- and third-degree burns on left side of face, eyes unaffected. BP's 100/69, pulse 92. But he's at least conscious, clear, and alert."

"Let's go!" the younger of the two doctors said. "Trauma Two."

As we made our way inside to get him to the trauma room, I looked out of the corner of my eye and saw a middle-aged woman in a navy blue blouse, chinos, and brown penny-loafers. "Ken!" she shrieked. Right away, I knew it was his wife.

"I—I'm okay, Eileen," he whispered. "Where's Cody?"

"Your grandson?" Mark guessed.

Mrs. Dayton nodded as she pulled a tissue out of her purse and wiped her eyes. Then, turning to her husband, she said, "He's with the Bentleys."

"Good deal," Mr. Dayton smiled. "Tell them—tell them we owe them a bridge game when this is over."

"I will," Mrs. Dayton laughed, smiling through her tears.

"Okay, Mrs. Dayton, I need you to wait out here," I said as we wheeled our patient into Trauma 2. After we gave the doctors in the room our report, we helped Mr. Dayton onto the table and headed back out.

When we got back out to our rig and put the gurney back in, we saw Smith and Kendall, the two other EMTs that met us at the school. "How is he?" Smith asked.

"He'll be fine," Mark said. "None of the chemicals got in his eyes when it blew, thank God, so he won't be blind."

"Boy, that man is one lucky son of a bitch," Kendall commented.

"I'll say!" I agreed. "Say, this may not the right time to bring this up, but we haven't had a chance to introduce ourselves in all this excitement. Hi, I'm Margo Pike, and this is my partner, Mark Evans."

"Todd Smith, and my partner, Jack Kendall," Smith—I mean, _Todd_—said.

"So, where are you guys stationed?" Mark asked.

"Firehouse Thirteen. You?"

"Firehouse Twenty-two, South Side," I said. "It's not too bad, once you get used to the smell of burned strawberry fritters from down the street."

"Ohh, you guys are near Grundy's," Kendall—_Jack—_groaned sympathetically. "Man, do I feel sorry for you."

"That bad, huh?" Mark guessed.

"Let me put it this way: it's the only donut shop in town where what they sell can barely be identified by science," Jack explained. "Your best bet would be to bring some donuts from home and disseminate them among yourselves."

"Thanks for the tip," I said. "So, what's your unit number?"

"Nineteen," Jack answered. "You?"

"Thirty-six," I answered.

At that moment, I heard Todd's pager go off. "Well, needed again," he said. "It was nice meeting you guys."

"You, too," Mark said as we got in our separate ambulances. They headed east, and we headed west.

The sun was setting when we got back to our firehouse. On this day alone, we'd treated Mark's niece for a seizure, assisted in helping a man after a heart attack that resulted in a car accident, come to the aid of one of my old baby-sitters' co-workers, revived a teenage boy with a heart condition who'd overdone it at the racquetball court, and stopped a guy on an acid trip from trying to jump off an overpass. In addition, we also delivered a baby—which turned out to be a boy—and took both mother and baby to the hospital.

"Hell of a day, huh?" Mark commented after we'd parked.

"I'll say," I agreed. "It never gets any easier, does it?"

"Well—no, not really. I still remember my first year on the job. My partner and I were called to help get some people out of an apartment building fire. But what the dispatcher neglected to tell us was that there was a shootout between two gangs going on seven blocks away."

"Whoa," I exclaimed. If my eyes could open any wider, they would've popped right out of my head. "Did you get shot at?"

"Surprisingly, no," Mark said. "But we did get a lovely assortment of bricks and beer bottles thrown at our rig on the way out."

"Oh, that's lovely," I groaned. "I guess it won't be long before I get to experience that."

"Well, hopefully, you'll never have to."

"And I thought New York was bad."

We went inside to get a bite to eat before clocking out. Our firehouse has a small kitchenette on the top floor, and after a hectic day, that's always the first place we go to when we return. And today was one of those days, so that's where we went. If you know firefighters or EMTs, you'll know that we always work up an appetite on the job. Luckily for Mark and me, it was Tuesday, which meant the fridge and cabinets were full. The rule around here is that every Monday, the firemen go shopping for enough food to feed an army—which includes us EMTs—then whenever we notice something is running low, we buy it ourselves.

As I took the hot dogs out of the microwave and fixed them up for us, Mark opened the bag of chips and put them in a bowl, then he got two cans of Diet Dr. Pepper out of the fridge. Just as we were getting ready to sit down, his cell phone rang.

"Evans," he answered. "Oh, hi, Cassie. How is she?...Oh, thank God...Thanks for letting me know. Oh, and if you need someone to watch the boys tonight, Anne and I will be glad to do it...Okay. Tell the boys I'll see them when I get home...'Bye."

"How's Lydia?" I asked as soon as he'd put his phone away.

"She's awake and alert," Mark answered, opening the jar of relish. "When she woke up, she didn't remember a thing about the seizure, the ride to the hospital, not a damn thing. Dr. Brown says they want to keep her for a couple of days."

"Boy, that's a relief," I commented. "That must have been so scary for you."

"It is, but I'm getting used to it. Lydia's had this condition since she was a baby. When she was born, we didn't think she'd live to see her second birthday. And now she's four."

I took a bite of my hot dog, wiped a blob of relish off my chin, and said, "Wow, that's amazing."

"I'll say," Mark agreed. Then, changing the subject, he said, "So, uh—I noticed how well you and Smith were getting along today."

"Oh, you mean Todd?"

_"Yes,_ I mean Todd," Mark said, in the same tone of voice Mallory always used whenever she thought one of my other siblings or I had asked the world's dumbest question. "I notice things, kiddo. That's part of the job."

"Mark, I just met the guy a few hours ago," I laughed. "I'm not exactly planning on making a reservation at Chez Hoity-Toity right now."

"I wasn't asking you to. I'm just making an observation."

I couldn't help grinning and shaking my head. "Okay, I'll level with you," I admitted. "He's kind of cute."

"Didn't I tell you I notice things?"

"All right, that's enough," I said, waving my hand. "Well, it's just about quitting time by my watch."

"Yup. Well, guess I'll see you tomorrow."

"I'll be here," I answered.

As we threw our trash away and clocked out for the night, I knew perfectly well what Mark was getting at: he knew I liked Todd, and I should try to get to know him a little better outside of work.

Who knows?


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: This is the last chapter.

**CHAPTER 5**

You know how I keep saying that an EMT's job never ends? Well, it's true. Sometimes, as I'm walking the four blocks from the firehouse to the bus stop, I'll come across someone who's either broken a bone, having a seizure, or God knows what else.

Tonight was no exception. As I turned the corner to cross the street, I saw a young Filipino woman who looked about seven or eight years my senior pulling up to the curb in a black GrandAm. She jumped out of the car and reached in and pick up a gasping, teary-eyed little boy who looked about the same age as Mallory's twins, pounding him on the back all the while. I knew right away what the problem was.

"What's wrong?" I asked as I ran over to the curb.

"My son's choking!" she answered hysterically.

"What'd you have to eat?"

"McDonald's."

"Give him to me," I instructed. Next, using the Heimlich maneuver, I kept up the chest thrusts until he coughed up a big bite of cheeseburger. It splattered on the pavement next to a fire hydrant, and the little boy, now breathing on his own, started bawling. I hadn't heard anyone pitch that much of a fit since Claire wanted her teddy bear back that she'd put in the time capsule. The time capsule had also been a Kristy Thomas idea. She buried it prior to her eighth grade graduation, when I was in second grade, and it was dug up seven years later, after I finished my freshman year of high school.

"It's all right now, honey," I said soothingly. "Are you scared, or just mad at the world in general?"

My guess, a little of both.

"Thank you so much," the woman said as I handed her crying son back to her.

"All in a day's work, ma'am," I answered.

"Say, what's your name and firehouse number? I'd like to send a letter of thanks to your chief," she said as she put her son back in the car.

"Oh, you don't have to."

"I know, but I want to."

I gave her the information, then she got in her car and drove off.

After they were out of sight—and no, I wasn't thinking of reminding her that she was parked right next to the hydrant—I continued on my way to the bus stop. As I sat down on the bench and took a Baby Ruth out of my purse, I thought about my life in Stoneybrook, my family, and the Baby-sitters Club. I felt pretty damn lucky having the family and friends I had, even though we Pikes were, and most likely still are, the single most rambunctious bunch of hooligans that ever lived. If you combined _Eight Is Enough_ with _Wild Kingdom,_ that'd be us in a nutshell. Which is why we always needed two sitters at our house.

I also thought about the day I'd joined the BSC—or, to put it more accurately, inducted. I remember it like it was yesterday. You see, Kristy and the older members were getting ready to leave for college that fall, but they still wanted the club to continue, so Kristy passed the baton, if you will, to her stepsister, Karen. Nancy Dawes—who is now Bill Korman's fiancée—was made vice-president, Hannah Papadakis was made secretary, Natalie Springer was made alternate officer, and I was made treasurer. It was just like watching the next President being sworn into the White House: Kristy had actually held out the BSC notebook, made us put our left hand on it, and used a shortened and modified version of the Presidential oath. As long as I live, I'll never understand how the hell we got through that without busting a gut. I'm just glad that while she was doing that, she didn't make the mistake of saying, "I, state your name"! (Yeah, yeah—I've seen_ Blazing Saddles_ too many times.)

The bus soon pulled up after I finished my candy bar. I got on, and sat in my usual seat in the back. After ten minutes or so, I got off at my apartment building and checked my mailbox. As I rode the elevator to the third floor, I checked my mail: an electric bill, a letter from Byron, a letter from Jordan, and one of those little ads they like to stick in the mailboxes. I threw the ad in the trash, like I usually do, unlocked the front door, and made my way down the hall to my apartment.

The first thing I saw when I went inside was the light blinking on my answering machine. I pressed the button, and the first message was from Claudia. "Hi, Margo. I just wanted to thank you guys for helping Ken today. The doctor said he'll have to stay in the hospital for a few days, but otherwise, he'll make it. And the principal has already taken care of finding a substitute for him while he's recuperating. Oh, and I was wondering if you were interested in going to lunch this weekend. There's this great new Thai place over on Wabash. Give me a call as soon as you can, okay?"

After listening to the last message, which was from Mom, I took out my iPhone and turned on the Facebook app. I don't know why, but I had this sudden urge to go on there, look them up, and tell them I loved them. None of them were on at the time, but just the same, I left them a message that was basically along the lines of, "Hey, how have you been? I've been doing okay, just another day of saving lives. And yes, if you really must know, I've long since gotten over my legendary weak stomach. Anyway, I just wondered if you'd like to get together sometime, because I'd really like to see you. If nothing else, I'll see you at Thanksgiving. Oh, and I also wanted to say I miss you and I love you."

After I finished messaging Mallory, I thought about what Mark said. He was right about one thing: I sort of did have a little crush on Todd. My first impulse was to get out the phone book and look him up, but then it occurred to me that if I did that, he might think I was coming on too strong. Stacey always told us girls that if there was a guy we were interested in getting to know, the last thing we should do is jump right in too quickly, if you know what I mean. That made sense to me. Ultimately, I decided to take my time and not make it too obvious that I liked him. Maybe if I saw him again, I'd try to get to know him a little, and establish a friendship with him. But not right now. I'd do it tomorrow, if I saw him, and if there was enough time.

Because like the saying goes, tomorrow is another day.

**THE END**


End file.
